LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume II, Issue 102, 28 September 1874, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE INITIALS ON THE TREE.

[From Bow Bells.'] Continued.

The next day Rupert left New York for Australia ; and Mrs Milton when she read his name in the list of passengers, uttered a silent ejaculation of thanks, little dreaming of the interview which had taken place the afternoon before, or of the solemn pledge then given. Doi’glas Stuart had been telling himself, for several years past, that he had done with love and its hopes ; but when he became acquainted with Maud Milton, he soon discovered his error. Before the summer which threw her in fhis way had ended, he was obliged to look the truth plainly in the face, and to admit that life had offered a new iiope—a sweeter one, perhaps, than any that had gone before. The fete which had made such a talk was one of the first results of this conviction; and yet it was only beginning, as it were. He was so kind, so thoughtful, so agreeable a companion, that Maud unconsciously glided into a more intimate friendship with him any other gentleman. His very age, indeed, blinded her to what he wished. He was a great deal at the house; he met her at parties everywhere, that summer and autumn ; his carriage and horses were always at her mother’s disposition. Mrs Milton, on her part, was too shrewd, as yet, to utter a word which could rouse any disquieting thoughts in the girl’s mind. But carefully as he tried to guard looks and language, some perception of the truth did at length startle Maud; and she set herself to work to find some means of avoiding his society, and sparing him the possibility of pain. She managed to refuse one or two invitations, where she would meet him ; to be occupied or .indisposed when he came to the house ; but there was not much time allowed her to struggle. No sign did Mrs Milton give that she perceived any al teration in the girl’s manner ; during those three days she was as sweet as ever; admitted Maud’s excuses ; and Maud began to hope that her mother had perceived nothing, and that she would have no difficulty in slipping out of the painful position in which she found herself.

It was the close of the third day. Mrs Milton had been driving out, and Maud had spent the afternoon quietly in her room, writing a letter to Rupert—one of those secret letters, which were almost as much pain as pleasure to write, because of the necessary deception to her mother involved in them. The last page was finished; and now she sat dreaming of the future, which was to make amends for this present waiting and suspense. It was not until the shadows of the early twilight began to fill the room, that it occurred to her to wonder that her mother had not returned. She went down stairs for some trifle she had left in the library ; went into the darkened room, singing softly an old song that Rupert had loved. Suddenly on a sofa near the fire, she recognised her mother and Mr Stuart in earnest conversation. Her first impulse was to get away unnoticed. A sudden fear had struck her heart like a blow from air icy hand. But Mrs Milton saw her, and called her.

‘ Maudie, come here ; don’t go, child. Mr Stuart said something quickly in an undertone. Mrs Milton replied laughingly, and Maud, moving towards them, in obedience to the summons, caught the last words of the reply. ‘ Let me do it in my own way ; you’ll not be sorry,’ her mother was saying. If Douglas Stuart Imdnot been himself agood deal agitated, he could scarcely have failed to see how pale the girl was, and how the fingers which she extended hesitatingly to him, in response to his greeting, trembled under his touch.

But Mrs Milton was perfectly calm—equal as ever, to the exigencies of the occasion. ‘ Maud,’ she said, gently, ‘Mr Stuart has just been telling me a secret, and begging for my interposition. He has done you the honor to ask your hand in marriage. He does not press you for an answer now ; but he wants you to give him an opportunity to win your regard, and 1 have toldhim that 1 believe he can. I have told him, too, that such a future for you would make me very happy,’ . ~, , , Maud could not speak. She felt about blindly for a chair, and sat down. She knew what she ought to do. She ought to tell the whole truth at once; but she had neither voice nor strength, ihen she heard Mr Stuart’s grave tones. “ This has been too abrupt,” he said. 1 beg your pardon, Miss Maud. I know it is so°new to you that no answer at all would be possible. See, I am going away now. Please don’t be afraid of me.” His gentle voice brought back her courage a little; but she could see her mother’s eyes full upon her, and the words she tried to speak died on her lips. “ Only let me say this,” Mr Stuart added. “ If, later, you can give me the least hope, you will make me very happy, and I will try to be worthy of your goodness.”

Then he was gone, and mother and daughter sat alone among the shadows. “ Don’t get up, Maud,’’Mrs Milton said, quickly. • ‘ Let me tell you something before you say a word. ” “ Only—only ” 1 ‘ Wait, child! I have been foolish enough, this autumn, to indulge in some speculations, in hopes to better our fortune. They have turned out dismal failures. I have lost the little competency we had.’ ‘ Oh! mother ’ ‘Yes! But that is not the worst. Do not, my child,’ she added, hurriedly, ‘judge me, till you consider the temptation. I not only lost what we had, but more. To make up the deficiency—to avoid immediate ruin—• I used Mr Stuart’s name. I—l—imitated—his signature ’ ‘ Mother!’ This time it was almost a shriek.

‘ Remember, in justice to me, that I was wild with despair—insane! I do not know what I was doing. In a few months, as soon as the bill is due, it will all come out. With you it rests to save me. Marry Mr Stuart, and I am safe—our good name is spared—my momentary madness will never be known. Refuse, and yon consign me to a prison.’ ‘ But—but, ’ stammered Maud, stunned by this terrible blow, yet groping blindly for escape, ‘ why not throw yourself on Mr Stuart’s mercy? Why not frankly tell all ’

‘We would be rushing into the lion’s den —unless, first, you promised to marry him.’ ‘ But Rupert?’ moaned Maud. ‘ I cannot give him up!’ * Rupert, Rupert!’ cried Mrs Milton, seizing Maud by the arm. ‘Do you dare to weigh your silly fancy for that adventurer against a mother’s honor—a mother’s life; for I swear to you that I will never, never survive the disgrace of an exposure?’ She was like some wild animal now, in her frenzy and despair. Maud shrank from her side, frightened and trembling. ‘I—I can’t talk—at least, not now,’ she said, faintly. ‘ I want to go to my room, please. Perhaps, to-morrow, I ’ * Go, ’ answered Mrs Miller, more calmly, releasing her hold. ‘ Think this all over. But there is only one way of escape. ’

The girl got to her room, and, in its solitude, the full horror of her situation burst upon her. Which ever way she turned, she saw no hope. She was in a net, from which escape was impossible. ‘ Father in heaven, ’ she prayed, * guide me in this extremity! Oh, help me, help me, in this sore, sore strait

The next morning, her mother came in, and finding her ill, and feverish, insisted upon her remaining in bed, doing everything kind that was in her power. There was no attempt at conversation between them, except on unimportant subjects. Later in the day, Mrs Milton came back, and put a note in Maud’s hand, saying, “ I have written this for you, to read, because you are not well enough to talk. ’ It was only to tell Maud that she had seen Mr Stuart. He did not wish or mean to hurry her. For the present, everything was to go on as usual. Mrs Milton added some sentences, which led Maud to suppose that she had explained to him the old attachment between her daughter and Rupert. So, when Maud, finding that she could not die—could not even be ill—had to go down stairs again, and take up life as if nothing had happened to render it a torture, she found herself placed in the most difficult position possible. There were more gaieties on foot than ever, and she was obliged to accept her part in them; Wherever she went, Mr Stuart was by her side—the kindest, gentlest friend imaginable ; and not a word escaped his lips which enabled her to tell him the truth. Moreover, how was she to tell it ? The letter to Rupert had been destroyed ; she could not send it. Later, she knew that she must write him that they were separated for ever ; but she could not do it yet. Two whole weeks of this agony went by, and, day by day, Maud felt the toils narrow about her—realised, more and more, as the time elapsed, that there was only one way out. A thousand wild projects of rescue suggested themselves to her mind ; but each, in turn, had to be rejected. She felt she was utterly powerless. They were invited one evening to dine at Mr Stuart’s house—just themselves and his two old-maid sisters. After dinner, not even the laws of politeness could keep the two ancients awake, and Mrs Milton was busy with a book of engravings ; so Stuart led Maud away into the distant conservatory, to look at his flowers.

‘ I asked you, the other day, if you considered me your friend,” he said, abruptly. ‘ You havebeen very kind,’she answered, longing to break from him, and run off; but feeling how useless it was to prolong this unequal struggle. ‘ 1 want you to let me be your friend,’ he repeated, looking down with a smile, which made his face fairly handsome. He was pale, but perfectly composed, holding her hand fast in his own, while ho spoke. The poor little fingers quivered piteously, but did not attempt to release themselves from his grasp. Then Maud stole one sly glance at his face. Their eyes met ; and something in the expression of his checked partially the nervous timidity which had shaken her.

‘I want to be your friend,’be continued, in the same gentle voice; ‘but, remember, there can be no real friendseip without perfect confidence on both sides. Are you sure that you trust me?’ ‘I know I can—l do,’ she said, steadily, though he felt the hand he held grow cold as ice.

She could not see his face now. He had turned it aside. The lines about his mouth quivered, and the earnest eyes became misty and dim; but the expression of deep pity and sympathy for her was there still. ‘ I have been silent during this fortnight,’ he continued; ‘ but I am not blind. Oh, Maud, do you think me selfish enough to buy my happiness at the expense of yours?” She knew then that he had been studying her, —that, at least, a portion of the truth was clear to him. Her mother—this was the one thought in her mind—her mother! She could not even remember Rupert; she could only recollect that she had, perhaps, lost the one' means of rescuing her mother from shame and prison. ‘Mr Stuart,’ she said, quickly, conscious that if she stopped to reflect, she should be utterly unable to speak,— ‘ I have wanted to tell you —I have had no opportunity—l want to tell you everything. ’ He drew her to a seat, and sat down beside her, quietly. To be continued.